


inhale (it's something akin to salvation)

by serenaii



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, M/M, there's not much smut i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1362112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenaii/pseuds/serenaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nijimura's screwed plenty of things up in the past. He's also screwing Mayuzumi Chihiro in the present. There's a correlation between those two statements somewhere, but trying to find it elicits the need of a really strong beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inhale (it's something akin to salvation)

**Author's Note:**

> I have spent ten days in the hospital with ulcers on my mucous lining, my sanity is questionable and we all make bad life decisions at some point. What I'm trying to say is that I have an excuse for this. I truly do.  
> OR this started out as a joke it was supposed to be a light hearted smut fic there are people responsible for this and all of them are me I'm so so sorry  
> OR my smut-writing virginity and I've lost it to the mayuniji so who's the real sucker here huh

It’s an open secret that Mayuzumi used to jump Akashi’s bones like nobody’s business. Hell, the whole situation just screams soap opera break up and big fat teary-eyed shoujo romance betrayal and really, Nijimura thinks that he was just asking for it. He’s not seen his junior in years, the fiery-haired wunderkind he’d left his captain’s badge with, but he’s heard the rumours and he’s watched the matches and Mayuzumi should have known those bones were red-hot fireplace pokers itching to scald the nearest patch of skin it could find.

So, open secret. What that means is that Nijimura has never, ever brought the subject up. _Ever_. He might be blunt and social interaction might be an intricately befuddling maze for the lone engineering major, but he’s not an idiot. And you know who brings up the subject of borderline sociopathic exes with their significant others? Idiots, that’s who.

Besides, he already suffered enough the day Mayuzumi had decided to google him. He doesn’t know what twisted dedication compelled Mayuzumi to search all the way to page three of the results, but he knows he never wants to relive the moment where Mayuzumi chanced upon a particularly unfortunate article about his particularly eventful Teikou captaincy. The cold shoulder he received for the next two weeks was only marginally more painful than the look of abject horror that graced those cold, cold eyes.

And he gets it. It’s a touchy subject, basketball; the game’s ingrained in the lines of his palm, encapsulated in the micro plasma of his blood and he hasn’t played in two years, but it’s a scab he hasn’t quite picked off yet, a spot sensitive to the touch. For Mayuzumi, it’s not even that: it was just an enthusiastic game, a hobby that he particularly enjoyed and was relatively passable at. The point being, basketball was, for both of them, a single pillar in the building: might have caused a few cracks in the wall when removed, sure, but it was something you’d hardly notice unless the roof came crashing down on you.

But miracles will be miracles, and everyone obviously underestimated the complexities of structural damage with Teikou’s prodigies involved. The Rakuzan vs Serin match unexpectedly (or expectedly, depending on who you asked) became a proverbial war, and Mayuzumi was a victim caught in the crossfire, bullet-metal eyes and arrows to the knee and the perils of taking high-school basketball way more seriously than one ought to.

It’s a touchy subject, basketball.

He chalks it up to the beers he’s had, then, when he kneels on the floor of their dorm room, takes Mayuzumi’s foot in his hands and licks up the smooth arc of flesh and murmurs into his skin, “Did Akashi do this to you, too?”

The minute he says it, he winces internally and waits for Mayuzumi to violently jam the heel of his foot into his nose bridge.

Instead, Mayuzumi looks mildly bewildered, as if he didn’t quite register the stupidity that just came out of Nijimura’s mouth (there’s a certain wonder to drinking way too much, way too fast). “Hmmm?” He hums. “Well, I was the one doing most of the doing, if you know what I mean.” And then he honest to god wiggles his eyebrows and the alcohol must have short-circuited Nijimura’s dick somewhere along the line because he’s still hard even after that, goddamn it.

 He rolls his eyes—doesn’t show the relief there, because hell is there relief there—and refuses to deign that statement with a coherent reply. Instead, he swirls his tongue around Mayuzumi’s big toe slowly, nips at the rough skin on the joint and Mayuzumi’s breath hitches and his shit-eating grin falters but it doesn’t quite leave his face. “Why? Jealous? I didn’t peg you as the type.”

 Nijimura leans back. He can feel the lingering texture of slightly callused skin and Mayuzumi’s face is slightly flushed and he’s _still_ hard, but he huffs and asks incredulously, “Jealous of who? You?” Because he was there, at the match, he witnessed the desperation and the pain and Akashi standing tall, vertebrae locked into place and scoreboards flashing lifeblood and it doesn’t matter whose blood it was, doesn’t matter who won because everybody lost that day. They both know there’s absolutely no one to be jealous of.

Mayuzumi hasn’t forgotten that, he’s sure, but the guy still stares at him impassively (which is a feat in and of itself, considering the conspicuous tenting in his pants). He smirks slightly, nudges Nijimura’s cheek with his knee and he almost makes it look like a tender gesture when really, it sends the blood gushing down his body and sparks flaring and for the second time of his life Nijimura sincerely regrets bringing Akashi into any sort of conversation at all.

“You know,” Mayuzumi says. “It’s a high school basketball team reunion I was invited to. Not an orgy.” He lifts his foot to tilt Nijimura’s head back with a nudge, uncurls his toes and traces a path down Nijimura’s neck, down the line of his chest, of his abs, down down down and dear god, “You need to chill.”

“Have you seen that crazy team of yours?” He tries to grumble, but it’s a choked sound, strangled and needy. “There might be—shit—literally no difference between the two events you just described.” Mayuzumi’s heel is on his crotch, and he bites his lower lip and grinds down abruptly and Nijimura can’t breathe; forget reunions and ex-captains and all the shitty dredges of their shitty past, he’s as hard as a rock and he can’t _breathe_. “Can I kiss you?” he asks (because it’s how they started and it’s how they always start and he’s not gonna admit it but he’s sentimental as heck).

It comes out as almost a sob, and he doesn’t know what he would do if the corner of Mayuzumi’s lips didn’t quirk up with a “Yeah?”, because he’s already lunged forward, one hand grabbing the front of his shirt while the other reaches for his tarnished belt buckle.

Their lips slam together, and it’s only seasoned practice that prevents their noses from doing the same. Mayuzumi cups his face, runs his tongue over the ridges of his bottom teeth and the roof of his mouth. He can practically feel the vibrations Mayuzumi leaves behind, currents coursing through his veins and his fingers give a miniscule shudder as he tugs the belt out of the confines of its loops.

Nijimura slides the zipper down, slips Mayuzumi’s pants down to his knees and palms up the inner surface of his thighs. It’s hotter the further up his hands travel, slicker the wider the circumference of the circles he rubs into warm skin, and he hears a growl rising from the back of Mayuzumi’s throat before his head is tugged back and his back slams onto the wooden panelled floor.

Mayuzumi’s hands are weaved through his hair, neatly curved around his skull like a cushion against the impact; he hovers over Nijimura, lips gleaming and cheeks flushed and he’s not beautiful, not by a long shot, but there’s a life to those empty-looking eyes that Akashi’s will never know, that _Akashi_ will never know, and he tugs Mayuzumi down by the collar and kisses him again. It’s a _thank you_ and _sorry_ and _I’m glad we met_ , and Mayuzumi rocks into him and groans into his mouth with the sort of reckless abandon only youth or a huge pint can bring.

Nijimura reaches in between them to pull down whatever fabric he can grab hold of, and then they’re both in their boxers, cloth soaked through with precum and Mayuzumi’s really grinding down on him now, eyes shut and shoulders trembling and breath coming out in short, wet pants. Nijimura’s fingertips dig into his back, low enough not to leave a noticeable trace because he’s considerate, dammit, but not considerate enough that he wouldn’t bite down onto the sharp crook of Mayuzumi’s collarbone to hold back a moan.

He leaves the area pink and raw and slick with saliva and there’s going to be a mark when they get up tomorrow; Mayuzumi’s already pre-emptively returning the favour, hands travelling up his rucked up shirt and nails scratching down his chest deft and sharp and Nijimura can feel it, the pooling in his groin turning into a roiling, aching wave.

He grunts, arches his back and jerks his hips up erratically. Mayuzumi’s nails curl in just a little bit more; he pushes down abruptly, murmurs _Nijimura_ into the curling shell of his ear and he’s close now, he’s almost there, mouth open involuntarily and pressed into the shadowed corners of Mayuzumi’s jawline. The blood’s pumping through his body and down to his cock and the first tide washes in, then the second, his stomach fills with butterflies buzzing and then for that single blessed second Mayuzumi’s body aligns with his perfectly. He can feel his heart rate speed up and everything comes crashing down on him at that exact moment, his knees jerking up and it’s painful and good and every blinding feeling in between.  

Later, when they’ve been collapsed and reassembled and taken apart again, Mayuzumi curls up against him on the futon and toys with dark hair and says, smugly, “I’m not going to have sex with Akashi Seijuurou, you know. In case you needed reassurance.”

Nijimura bites back the urge to roll his eyes again, but he can’t help the irritated sigh that escapes him. “I’m not worried about you cheating on me.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Mayuzumi sounds genuinely bemused, and this time Nijimura really does roll his eyes. “Hey, I’m attractive. Enough.”

“Just go to sleep.” Nijimura buries his face into the pillow, lets the tension slink out of his shoulders and his breath even out. There’s silence, short but long enough, and the magic sand’s actually been sprinkled into his eyes when Mayuzumi speaks again.

“I’m still going to go, you know.”

Nijimura cracks one eye open. “And if I told you it was a horrible idea?” His voice is muffled by the pillow, but he’s too tired to move over and properly discuss questionable life choices with his boyfriend—they’ve had sufficient first-hand experience between the both of them, so there’s a high likelihood that there isn’t actually a need.

Still, he can sense Mayuzumi training his eyes on the small of his back, the careful maintenance of neutral bewilderment and a secret hint of excitement, because that’s what the thrill of rebellion does to people like Mayuzumi Chihiro, no matter how self-indulgently small. “I have no idea what your problem is exactly,” he says, and how could he have forgotten to add ‘a tad bit of annoyance’ to the list. “So right now, if you told me that, I would probably tell you to go eat shit.”

And he realises that Mayuzumi deserves so much more, much more than the person who placed a crown on the head of a boy not yet old enough to even put it on straight. More than the person who played a part in creating miracles and never took responsibility for them afterwards, who thought that one could make wine out of water and not pay a price. More than the person who left behind rubble and disaster games, victims buried in the ashes of train wrecks with hollow stares and angry eyes.

But Mayuzumi is everything Nijimura needs: someone who treats basketball like a particularly painful learning experience, and not oxygen in the air we breathe. He’s thick skinned and proud and not at all reluctant to flip you off if you deserved it; he’s the defect in a larger, screwed up puzzle Nijimura helped to complete; he’s the stubborn strength that’s forced him to dig his heels in and refused to let him run away again. He looks at Mayuzumi, and he’s reminded that Teikou wasn’t the be all and end all, it couldn’t be, not with a recovering father back home and a half-finished engineering degree here. He’s reminded that he’s made bad decisions, good decisions, painful decisions, and maybe he doesn’t wear responsibility as well as he once thought he did, maybe his complexion’s too sallow and his features too sharp for it to suit him, but the remnants of miracles no longer stab him in the lungs and bleed him dry with every inhale.

He feels Mayuzumi’s cheek pressed against his shoulder blade; they’re both dozing off and there is so much hope in these small reminders of hopelessness, hope that’s there when he turns his head slightly and mutters “Go.”

Mayuzumi will find his way back from Kyoto in one piece. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. And he’ll find his way back to a funny sort of contentment, one with far too little actual food and far too much takeout, and he’ll deserve so much more while Nijimura’ll deserve so much less but they’ll both seem happy and it’s fine, isn’t it, just for this short while?

Nijimura closes his eyes and he doesn’t feel guilt, he feels quiet and peaceful and somehow okay. 

* * *

Mayuzumi throws open the doors to Rakuzan’s practice facility with a purpose he hasn’t known since leaving high school. That purpose materialises itself in the form of Akashi Seijuurou, who turns and blinks and then begins to smile, niceties and calculated pleasantry seeping into that pretty face.

He’s having none of that shit. “Akashi Seijuurou,” he declares, as pompously as he can manage because he’s been waiting for this moment for years, and if he wants theatricality then all the heavens above the earth will not stop him from having his threatricality. “You were a complete douchebag back in high school. Like, the biggest asshole of the century. You could win awards with your sheer jerkassery alone. I bet your mother would be proud.” He pauses. “Also, I’m totally screwing your ex-captain right now, so fuck you too.”

The doors close with an air of newfound satisfaction. Akashi stands, smile frozen in place and on the verge of hyperventilation. Mibuchi sits down on the bleachers and cries. Hayama laughs so hard he bursts his appendix and spends the next week in hospital. Nebuya eats.

It’s a fun vacation.

**Author's Note:**

> this is disgusting and so am i i'm sorry


End file.
